“I’m not going to take you there, there will be decent people there, not of your level,” my husband declared, unaware that I own the company where he works.

 

The bedroom mirror reflected a familiar scene: I was adjusting the pleats of a modest gray dress I had bought three years ago at an ordinary store. Dmitry was nearby, fastening the cufflinks on his snow-white shirt—Italian, as he never tired of emphasizing at every opportunity.

“Are you ready?” he asked, without looking at me, busy removing nonexistent dust from his suit.

—Yes, we can go —I replied, checking one last time if my hair was in place.

Finally, he turned to me, and I saw in his eyes the familiar expression of mild disappointment. Dmitry silently looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on my dress.

“Don’t you have anything more decent?” he said, in his usual condescending tone.

I had heard those words before every corporate event. Each time they stung like a knife—not fatal, but unpleasant. I learned not to show how much they hurt. I learned to smile and shrug.

“This dress is perfectly suitable,” I said calmly.

Dmitry sighed as if he had disappointed him again.

—Okay, let’s go. Just try not to draw too much attention to yourself, okay?

We got married five years ago, when I had just finished economics school and he was working as a junior manager at a trading company. At the time, he seemed like an ambitious, determined young man with a bright future. I liked the way he talked about his plans, how confidently he looked to the future.

Over the years, Dmitry really climbed the career ladder. He was now a senior sales manager, handling important clients. He spent his earnings on his appearance: expensive suits, Swiss watches, a new car every two years. “Image is everything,” he liked to repeat. “People need to see that you’re successful, or they won’t do business with you.”

I worked as an economist at a small consulting firm, earning a modest salary, and I tried not to burden the family budget with unnecessary expenses. Whenever Dmitry took me to corporate events, I always felt out of place. He would introduce me to his colleagues with a touch of irony: “Here’s my little gray mouse out for a stroll.” Everyone would laugh, and I would smile, pretending to find it funny too.

Little by little, I began to notice how my husband had changed. Success went to his head. He started looking down on not only me, but also his bosses. “I’m selling this junk made by our Chinese,” he’d say at home, sipping expensive whiskey. “The main thing is to present it well, and they’ll buy anything.”

Sometimes he hinted at additional revenue streams. “Customers appreciate good service,” he’d wink. “And they’re willing to pay extra for it. Personally, you know?”

I understood, but I preferred not to delve deeper.

Everything changed three months ago when a notary called me.

—Anna Sergeevna? This is about your father Sergey Mikhailovich Volkov’s inheritance.

My heart sank. My father left our family when I was seven. Mom never told me what happened to him. I only knew that he was working somewhere, living his own life, where there was no place for a daughter.

“Your father passed away a month ago,” the notary continued. “According to the will, you are the sole heir to all his assets.”

What I discovered at the notary’s office changed my life. It turned out that my father wasn’t just a successful businessman; he had built an entire empire. An apartment in the center of Moscow, a country house, cars, but most importantly: an investment fund with stakes in dozens of companies.

Among the documents, I found a name that made me shudder: “TradeInvest” — the company where Dmitry worked.

For the first few weeks, I was in shock. Every morning I woke up unable to believe it was real. I only told my husband that I had changed jobs—I was now working in the investment sector. He reacted indifferently, muttering something about hoping my salary wasn’t less than before.

I began to study the issues at the fund. My background in economics helped a lot, but most importantly, I was genuinely interested. For the first time in my life, I felt I was doing something important, something meaningful.

I was particularly interested in the company “TradeInvest”. I requested a meeting with the CEO, Mikhail Petrovich Kuznetsov.

“Anna Sergeevna,” he said when we were alone in his office, “I have to be honest: the company’s situation isn’t very good. The sales department, in particular, is having problems.”

—Tell me more.

—We have one employee, Dmitry Andreev. He officially handles major clients, the volume is high, but the profits are almost nonexistent. Furthermore, many deals are unprofitable. There are suspicions of violations, but not yet enough evidence.

I requested an internal investigation, without revealing the true reasons for my interest in this particular employee.

The results of the investigation came in a month later. Dmitry was indeed embezzling company money, arranging “personal bonuses” with clients in exchange for lower prices. The sum was considerable.

By then, I’d already revamped my wardrobe. But true to myself, I chose understated clothes—only now they were from the world’s top designers. Dmitry didn’t notice the difference. To him, anything that didn’t scream “gray mouse” was still “gray mouse stuff.”

Last night he announced that there would be a major corporate event tomorrow.

“A report dinner for senior management and key employees,” he informed me with importance. “The entire company leadership will be there.”

“I understand,” I replied. “What time do I need to be ready?”

Dmitry looked at me in surprise.

“I’m not taking you; there will be decent people there, not of your caliber,” he declared, unaware that I owned the company where he worked. “Understand, it’s a serious event. There will be people there who will decide my fate at the company. I can’t afford to look… well, you know.”

—Not really.

“Anyechka,” he tried to soften his tone, “you’re a wonderful wife, but you lower my social standing. Next to you, I look poorer than I am. These people should see me as their equal.”

His words hurt, but not as deeply as before. Now he knew my worth. And his own.

“Okay,” I said calmly. “Have fun.”

This morning Dmitry went to work in a good mood. I put on a new Dior dress—dark blue, elegant, flattering yet understated. I had my hair and makeup done professionally. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a completely different person. Confident, beautiful, successful.

I knew which restaurant the event was being held at—one of the best in the city. Mikhail Petrovich greeted me at the entrance.

—Anna Sergeevna, it’s good to see you. You look wonderful.

—Thank you. I hope we can summarize the results and outline plans for the future today.

The room was filled with people in expensive suits and dresses. The atmosphere was professional yet welcoming. I spoke with heads of other departments and met key employees. Many already knew I was the new owner of the company, although it wasn’t public knowledge yet.

I noticed Dmitry as soon as he walked in. He was wearing his best suit, had a new haircut, and looked confident and important. He scanned the room, clearly assessing those present and his place among them.

Our eyes met. At first, she didn’t understand what she was seeing. Then her face twisted with anger. She approached me purposefully.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, moving closer. “I told you this isn’t for you!”

“Good evening, Dima,” I replied calmly.

“Get out of here immediately! You’re embarrassing me!” she said in a low but fierce voice. “And this disguise? Are you wearing your ratty rags again to humiliate me?”

Several people started staring at us. Dmitry noticed and tried to compose himself.

“Listen,” she said in a different tone, “don’t make a scene. Just leave quietly and we’ll discuss everything at home.”

At that moment, Mikhail Petrovich approached us.

—Dmitry, I see you already know Anna Sergeevna —she said with a smile.

“Mikhail Petrovich,” Dmitry instantly switched to a servile demeanor, “I didn’t invite my wife. Honestly, it would be better if she went home. After all, it’s a business event…”

“Dmitry,” Mikhail Petrovich looked at him in surprise, “but I invited Anna Sergeevna. And she’s not leaving. As the owner of the company, she must be present at this reporting event.”

I watched the information sink into my husband’s mind. First confusion, then understanding, then horror. The color slowly drained from his face.

“Owner… of the company?” she asked, barely audible.

—Anna Sergeevna inherited her father’s majority stake—Mikhail Petrovich explained. —She is now our main shareholder.

Dmitry looked at me as if he were seeing me for the first time. I read panic in his eyes. He understood that if I knew about his dealings, his career was over.

“Anya…” he began, and notes appeared in his voice that she had never heard before. Pleading. Fear. “Anya, we need to talk.”

“Of course,” I nodded. “But first, let’s listen to the reports. That’s why we’re here.”

The next two hours were torture for Dmitry. He sat next to me at the table, tried to eat, to talk, but I could see how nervous he was. His hands trembled when he raised his glass.

After the official part, he took me aside.

“Anya, listen to me,” he said quickly, pleadingly. “I understand you probably know… I mean, maybe someone told you… But it’s not true! Or not entirely true! I can explain everything!”

That pathetic, humiliated tone was even more repulsive to me than his former arrogance. At least back then he was honest in his contempt for me.

“Dima,” I said quietly, “you have the opportunity to leave the company and my life in a peaceful and dignified way. Think about it.”

But instead of accepting the offer, she exploded:

“What game are you playing?!” he shouted, not caring that people were staring at us. “Do you think you can prove anything? You have nothing against me! It’s all speculation!”

Mikhail Petrovich signaled to security.

“Dmitry, you’re disturbing the peace,” he said sternly. “Please leave the premises.”

“Anya!” Dmitry shouted as they escorted him out. “You’ll regret this! Do you hear me?”

A real scandal awaited me at home.

“What was that?!” he shouted. “What the hell were you doing there?! Trying to set a trap for me? Do you think I don’t know what that was—an act?!”

He paced back and forth, waving his arms, his face red with rage.

“You won’t prove anything! Nothing! It’s all your fabrications and schemes! And if you think I’ll let a fool control my life…”

“Dima,” I interrupted calmly, “the internal investigation at the company began two months ago. Before you even knew who I am.”

He remained silent, looking at me suspiciously.

“I asked Mikhail Petrovich to give you the opportunity to resign without consequences,” I continued. “But apparently, it was in vain.”

“What are you talking about?” Her voice became lower but no less angry.

“The investigation showed that you embezzled about two million rubles over the past three years. But it was surely more. There are documents, recordings of conversations with clients, and bank transactions. Mikhail Petrovich has already handed the materials over to the authorities.”

Dmitry slumped into the armchair as if he had weakened.

“You… can’t…” he murmured.

“If you’re lucky,” I said, “you might be able to negotiate some compensation. The apartment and the car should cover it.”

“Idiot!” he exploded again. “Where will we live then? You won’t have anywhere to live either!”

I looked at him with pity. Even now, in this situation, he was only thinking of himself.

“I have an apartment downtown,” I said softly. “Two hundred square meters. And a house in the Moscow region. My personal driver is already waiting for me downstairs.”

Dmitry looked at me as if I were speaking another language.

“What?” he whispered.

I turned away. He stood in the middle of the room—confused, broken, pathetic. The same man who that morning had deemed me unworthy to be by his side among “decent people.”

“You know, Dima,” I said, “you were right. We really are on different levels. Just not in the way you thought.”

I closed the door behind me and didn’t look back.

Down below, a black car with a driver was waiting for me. Sitting in the back seat, I looked out the window at the city, which now seemed different. Not because it had changed, but because I had changed.

The phone rang. Dmitry. I rejected the call.

Then a message arrived: “Anya, forgive me. We can fix everything. I love you.”

I deleted the message without replying.

A new life awaited me in the new apartment. The one I should have started years ago, but didn’t know I was entitled to it. Now I knew.

Tomorrow I would have to decide what to do with the company, the investment fund, my father’s inheritance. I would build a future that now depended solely on my decisions.

And Dmitry… Dmitry would stay in the past. Along with all the humiliations, insecurities, and feelings of inferiority he gave me during all those years.

I’m not a little gray mouse anymore. And I never was.